Footsteps of Tragedy

I knew I was saying goodbye to my dad for the last time. After my siblings and mom casually hugged him goodbye, I clutched him, hands trembling, tears filling my eyes, certain that I would never see him again. Although he was only flying a couple hours to Missouri, I knew that he was travelling to his grave. But when I insisted that flying is life-threatening, he told me that everything will be okay: the words of any heartbreaking movie that foreshadows tragedy. I saw myself, a character in this movie, watched by an invisible audience who saw a coming catastrophe and longed to intervene. But they were just as helpless as me.

My Dad turned and began walking towards the airport gate in slow motion. I watched every last movement, noticing as he turned his head one last time. His suitcase hit each ridge in the floor with a thump, like the footsteps of tragedy, as he began to accelerate. 

Thump Thump
Thump Thump Thump

The Weight of Fear

My brother’s tiny feet tripped over each other, and I heard the thump of his skull colliding with a pile of bricks. I knew my life would never be the same. 

Long after the screams, the blood, and the car doors slamming, I lay crumpled in the grass, crushed beneath the weight of fear. Surely my brother would never be able to think again. I pictured my footsteps joining the masses of regular hospital visitors, only able to visit my brother in a white room filled with tubes. Why hadn’t I seen this coming?  

The Brooding Brow of Death

I looked straight into unpupilled eyes under the brooding brow of Death. My mother’s camera flash had disturbed a bison in Yellowstone. And now I stared, petrified, as it lumbered towards our car. Circling around the front, it approached my window.

Thump.
Thump.

As it passed by, its hulking mass mocked my tiny body. Waves of indifference passed through the thin glass that separated my world from tragedy. Without a doubt, this barrier was about to shatter. 

Leukemia

We surround my family member with gasps and trembling words as we take in the news. Without speaking, our mouths fumble with the word, as we try to familiarize ourselves with these foreign syllables. They contain no deception, partiality, or loophole: only death. For once, I don’t have to convince my family of the danger circling us. The rest of my family sits gaping, but I slouch with a blank stare as I sense heavy clouds settling above me. I have always expected this. Yes, it took longer than I predicted, but now, at last, my life as a griever begins. 

Two weeks later I am told that this is a fairly common and safe form of leukemia that doesn’t even have to be treated unless it gets worse. 

I don’t believe it.

A Helpless Orphan

A phone ringing after nine makes my heart jump. Don’t tell me that it is probably just Grandma. Millions of phone calls deliver tragic news. 

My parents aren’t back and it is late. Maybe I’m an orphan just waiting to find out.

A knot in my stomach slowly tightens and I bend over in pain. Maybe I shouldn’t have eaten so much, or maybe my appendix is going to burst. Maybe I am taking my last breaths. 
    
Breathe. 
Nothing is going to happen. 
You can’t say that. You know you can’t say that.
But worrying doesn’t do any good. You can’t control this. 
    That is the problem.
No, the problem is that you fret over every pointless possibility that crosses your mind. 
Just cut it out. Stop worrying. Stop being irrational. 

    I can’t.

A Letter from Fear

The other day, I found a letter addressed to my family in case I didn’t come back from a trip overseas. I crumpled it up and threw it in the trash. 

Thumps in the Darkness

I roll over in my bed so that I can’t feel my beating heart. Otherwise every beat will cause me to question my heart’s steadiness. When I told the doctor that my heart sometimes pulses out of rhythm, they wheeled in a machine to check. Lying on a cold mat, I held my breath as wires were attached to my chest and I awaited the worst.

They said my heart is “olympic”. Instead of the the fatal diagnosis I had expected, they handed me a test for irrational fears. As my mind reeled, they reminded me that the leukemia wasn’t serious, that my brother returned from the hospital smiling, and that, of course, the plane didn’t crash. They suggested that my mind, not my heart, needs monitoring. 

But they can’t feel my heart. They don’t know that even now, in the quiet darkness of my bed, the thumping still haunts me. I try to change positions, I try to convince myself to breathe, but I know that the fear will never let me go.  

Thump
Thump Thump

Thump